


After the Dance

by reluctantabandon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Men going at it, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John.”  His voice was a dark velvet, breathy growl.  “You’re much too far away.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for Men Going At It. Completely unashamed PWP. Un-beta'ed, un-Britpicked. Have at it!
> 
> As always, all characters belong not to me but to the immortal and illustrious and finally sorely disillusioned ACD, and of course to Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.

The soiree at Mycroft's had gone rather well, John thought. It seemed that even Sherlock approved of John's sartorial elegance tonight, and of course Sherlock clothed always looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion shoot. He had even tamed his unruly curls for once, and John found the effect...intriguing. Sherlock's eyes had never looked more brilliant, and with his hair off his face, his cheekbones were even more prominent.

"I was just thinking the same about you," said Sherlock lazily, lounging back on Mycroft's settee.

"What?" replied John, stalling, wondering for the nth time how Sherlock could read his mind like that.

"Your hair. It looks different smoothed over like that in front. Quite handsome." Sherlock looked down at his hands, and John could swear he saw a faint blush stain Sherlock's cheek.

“You think so?” John said, feeling daring. He could feel his own cheeks heating a bit, and cleared his throat to distract himself. He shifted a bit in his chair, the leather creaking softly under him. 

“Yes, indeed. You do – what’s the phrase – clean up nice, John.” John’s eyes were drawn to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, curling in a smile, but then his gaze rose inexorably. 

And locked with his flatmate’s. 

John forgot to breathe. He could feel his pulse suddenly pounding in his ears; the tip of his tongue came out to touch his top lip.

“Sherlock…”

“John.” His voice was a dark velvet, breathy growl. “You’re much too far away.” Sherlock slowly stretched out his hand to John, an invitation, a promise, his eyes darkening. John, almost without conscious thought, rose from his chair. The two steps to Sherlock’s side seemed both blink-swift and agonizingly slow. John’s hand caught Sherlock’s, and he sank to his knees beside the settee. John at last let his desire and longing shine out of his eyes, and he could see the quickening of Sherlock’s breath as an answering need kindled in his face. Sherlock’s other hand came up slowly to cup the back of John’s head and pull him closer. For a moment they paused, each taking in the sight of the other’s face, the other’s expression, all feelings bared, all pretense now abandoned. John felt Sherlock’s breath on his lips as he leaned forward, so close, so close, then with a stifled moan he closed the distance.

Soft and tentative, trembling slightly, Sherlock’s lips moved under his. John could feel his own lips trembling; he had waited so long for this moment. Gently he nibbled and glided, urging a rhythm that Sherlock expertly followed. John’s tongue licked tentatively at Sherlock’s full lower lip, and Sherlock groaned and opened under him, his hand on John’s head pressing him closer, their twined hands unlinking to slide under and around backs, pulling tightly until they were pressed chest to chest. The kiss deepened as their tongues met, learning each other’s tastes and textures, lingering and building. When they broke apart, gasping, John left Sherlock’s lips to press ardent kisses along his jawbone down to the meltingly sweet juncture of his throat and shoulder. Sherlock’s sigh of reluctance at releasing John’s mouth converted to a hiss as John drew his tongue along Sherlock’s collarbone, then bit lightly, closing his lips over Sherlock’s pale skin.

“I want to mark you,” he breathed. He felt Sherlock shudder under him; a small noise escaped Sherlock’s lips. John smiled into Sherlock’s neck. “Mark you.” A kiss. “Bruise you.” Another soft bite. “Trace the tracks of my nails down…your…back,” with a trail of light kisses up the side of Sherlock’s neck to just under his ear.

Sherlock writhed under John, gasping and panting and making unintelligible growling noises. John pulled away, kneeling upright, and just looked at Sherlock. He lay back on the cushions of the settee, still moving restlessly, eyes closed, face flushed, lips swollen and slightly parted. John thought he had never seen anything so beautifully wanton in his life. Sherlock’s hand was still clutched tightly to the nape of John’s neck, and his fingers twitched as if to bring John closer.

“John…god, John,” Sherlock moaned, his eyes fluttering open. “Come back!” 

“I want…to be closer,” John said breathlessly.

“Yes, god, yes,” Sherlock panted, and grabbed John’s arms, nearly dragging him up and over until John was straddling him on the settee, one foot on the floor, one leg between Sherlock and the back of the settee. John ground his hips into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock groaned again, pulling John down and taking his mouth in another searing kiss. John’s head was whirling, his thoughts centered only on the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the glide of their tongues together, pushing closer, squirming, in his need to feel all of Sherlock, all at once. He could feel him, oh yes, could feel his strong shoulders and the planes of his chest, his sharp hipbones and muscular thighs and oh god, yes, his cock, hard and grinding against John’s through the thin fabric of their trousers. It wasn’t enough, would never be enough, and John knew then that he would never, ever get enough of Sherlock.

“Jacket,” Sherlock gasped, and John grinned wickedly against his mouth.

“No. Leave it on.” John reared back quickly, whipped his own jacket off, and tossed it somewhere. Sherlock’s fingers fumbled at the buttons of John’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, and John cupped Sherlock’s face with both hands, kissing his mouth and stroking hips against him until they were both breathless again and Sherlock’s hands caught helplessly at John’s shoulders. John’s top two buttons were finally undone, and Sherlock pulled free of the kiss and licked a long stripe down John’s jawline into the hollow of his throat. John made a low whining noise and arched his neck to give Sherlock better access. They moved against each other, cocks pressing together, and John could feel his own wetness against his skin. Boldly he reached between them and grasped Sherlock’s hardness through his trousers; he could feel the wetness there, knew Sherlock was as aroused as he was, and felt his own need gather hot and low. Sherlock moaned against his neck, those decadent lips sliding over the sensitive spot just under John’s ear, and John shuddered. The feel of his hand pressed between their bodies made him dizzy, and he felt like his whole body was sensitized, every nerve molten and glowing, his mind falling to pieces under the weight of his desire. 

Sherlock let his head fall back and John couldn’t resist burying his face in that neck, sucking and biting. Sherlock twisted beneath him, and John felt Sherlock’s hands on his knees, pushing his one leg upward onto the settee and the other onto Sherlock’s. Sherlock raised his knees so that John was lying between them, their hips slotted together. Ohhh, that was better. The friction from their grinding suddenly got more intense, and John gasped as he felt Sherlock’s cock surge in his hand, prompting an answering surge in his own. He moaned as Sherlock’s impossibly long fingers slid under the waistband of his trousers and smoothly grasped his erection, pulling it upright until the tip protruded from beneath John’s pants, thumb gliding across the sensitive glans and smearing the trickle of precome there. John almost came right then, the sensation was so intense. Instead he fumbled unsteadily at Sherlock’s waist, scrabbling his shirt up and slipping his hand in, fingers wrapping around unbelievably silky skin, all rigid softness and moist heat. As Sherlock’s fingers moved, stroking John from base to tip, John gently freed Sherlock’s cock from his pants, moving it parallel to his own. He could feel Sherlock’s hand moving against his, his hand moving against Sherlock’s, and it was almost too much, too soon, he wanted this to last just a bit longer.

John took his hand out of Sherlock’s trousers, huffing a laugh at Sherlock’s noise of displeasure. He circled Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, drawing it out of his own pants.

“John, what—“ Sherlock breathed, but John silenced him with his mouth, nibbling at his upper and lower lip in turn, then tracing his tongue over the gorgeous cupid’s-bow of that sinful upper lip, making Sherlock moan into John’s mouth and try to press closer still. John found Sherlock’s other hand, twined their fingers together, and lifted both hands above Sherlock’s head to press into the pillow there.

“Ohh,” gasped Sherlock, writhing and bucking beneath him. John let go of Sherlock’s hands to quickly unbutton his shirt and spread it open over that pale, sculpted chest and the hollow of his belly, moving back to grasp Sherlock’s wrists before he was aware enough to move them. John could feel the exquisite touch of their cocks as they slid and ground together, feeling the fabric of their trousers bunch and press, increasing the sensations. John began slowly thrusting his hips, sliding to the rhythm of his tongue moving in Sherlock’s mouth, feeling the pressure build and rise and listening to the lovely little sounds Sherlock was making. He circled his hips, wanting the drag and texture to increase, moving faster. Sherlock was almost keening into his mouth at this point, his hips losing the rhythm, shaking and jerking, abandoning control. John pressed his advantage, thrusting faster, harder, and Sherlock suddenly cried out, bowing upward against him. John felt the shuddering waves of Sherlock’s climax take him, hard and fast, felt the sudden warm wetness between them, and Sherlock came apart beneath him in the most beautiful surrender John had ever had the privilege to witness. 

John was rock-hard and throbbing, gasping for air, moving in slow circles to increase the friction against his cock, when Sherlock opened his eyes. The softness of his face was extraordinary, his eyes unfocused, lips parted.

“John,” he said softly, and that tipped John over the edge, and he himself was surrendering, glorying in it, crying out Sherlock’s name as his orgasm ripped through him and he slumped spasming onto Sherlock’s chest, fingers tangling in his gloriously messy curls.  
They lay there for a few moments, just breathing together, luxuriating in long, slow, tender kisses that could have lasted hours. At last John gave a long sigh and lifted his head. He looked down at Sherlock, shamelessly spread beneath him, and his mouth curved in a grin. He held Sherlock’s soft gaze as he lowered his head, Sherlock following his movements with languid curiosity. John placed a soft kiss at the top of Sherlock’s left pectoral, just under the clavicle, then followed it with a long, deep, sucking pull that made Sherlock grunt in surprise.

“There,” said John softly. He looked in appreciation as the love-bite grew crimson, then purpled. Sherlock smiled slowly.

“John Watson—his mark,” said Sherlock softly. John grinned in pleasure.

“Well, well,” said a dry voice from the doorway. They both jumped, startled, and only marginally relaxed at the sight of Mycroft’s elegant form. “I must congratulate you on the most spectacular ruination of my imported fabric.” Averting his eyes, Mycroft motioned to the minion behind him, who came forward with an emphatically blank expression to hand them a large and damp fluffy white towel. John looked at Sherlock, Sherlock looked at John, and they burst into the most irreverent giggles that Mycroft’s small salon had ever known.


End file.
